You Got That Medicine I Need
by natcat5
Summary: "We don't have to be monsters," says America, "I believe in a better world, don't you?" Canada's eyes flicker over to him again, pale violet and tired. Like all of their eyes are tired. "Belief is too much like pretending, sometimes," he says stiffly, gaze dropping down into his lap.


**Companion to 'In the Land of Gods and Monsters'. Can be read as a stand-alone, however. **

/

"We don't _have _to be monsters," says America, and Canada gives him a dry, sympathetic look before returning his gaze to the radio, fiddling with the dials. America doesn't let up though, pacing the room and biting his lip whilst throwing pained, half-angered glances at his brother. "I believe in a better world, don't you?"

Canada's eyes flicker over to him again, pale violet and tired. Like all of their eyes are tired.

"Belief is too much like pretending, sometimes," he says stiffly, gaze dropping down into his lap.

/

The war in Europe ends, and the victorious Allies cluster around a table in the crater hole that is Berlin. War-weary, tired, but with a manic, vicious energy electrifying the air. The constant pulse of victory, of triumph, of another nation's blood spilt. The air tastes like salt and copper, iron in scent and smell.

"They found where he was hiding away," says Russia, his mouth still fixed into that permanent smile, with a slight curl to his lips that make it look more like a snarl. "The things they did to the beautiful motherland- I want him. I _deserve _him. The honour should be mine. You would have _never _have won without me."

"Lest we forget, that you signed a treaty with him that allowed him to start this bloody war in the first place!" snaps England, and he's still swollen and bruised all over, still battered and bleeding with crumbling buildings and smoking blast holes where the bombs devastated his cities and towns. He's the only one of them who fought from the beginning to the end. Who held strong and met Germany's blows and viciousness strike for strike. His teeth are bared and his eyes are wild, Lion's eyes, and if anyone should make a claim for this, a claim to rip the defeated Germany's body limb from limb, it's England.

But he doesn't make the claim. His eyes flicker over to France, who is sitting sullen and subdued and quiet, body barely stitched back together, and then to China, sitting stiff, the wounds from Japan's katana and hands still painful and pulsing, his war not yet over. Neither of them will make the claim. Neither of them have the right.

It used to be easier. Even in wars with multiple, convoluted alliances, it was never complicated. Whoever found each other, fought each other. If England and Prussia were fighting France, well, whoever found him first got to tear him to shreds, got to claim the personal victory of Nation over Nation. Who contributed more to the war didn't factor in, not when they were all on the battlefield, with the scent of blood thick and heady in the air.

But it's different now, the world is different. Wars are different. They've all spent more time off the battlefield then on it. Leading from behind, from communications towers and underground strategy rooms. France and Russia are the only ones who have seen Germany face to face. America is the only one who has seen Italy, and he and China are the only ones who have seen Japan. England, on his little island, has seen no one.

England's eyes go back to America, who sits with his back straight, with his eyes clear, and his skin unbruised. He is strong, he is thriving, and even Russia, with his mighty population and growing army, cannot truly compare to the scent of _victory _of _might _and of _power _that are wafting off of the younger Nation.

England's blood boils, and he stays quiet, clenching down his teeth. He's familiar with the scent of Empire, intimately so, and it hurts in a peculiar way, to have that blood-stained smell of power, wealth, and domination drifting off of the man he will never see as anything more than a willful, wide-eyed child.

But the scent is there, the evidence is there, and he knows, as China and France and probably even Russia know, who the real victor is.

"America," he says, and his voice is still raspy with smoke, still full of jagged holes made by shrapnel and fiery debris. The boy turns to him, all wide-eyed, grim faced. Attempting to look serious, which is almost a comical expression on the Nation-child that has never been anything more than idealistic. He looks like he's holding in his breath, holding in his words, holding in the claim that he knows no one will contest.

"He's yours," says England, and America looks like the world's come tumbling down around him.

England's got no patience for that though. The sky has been falling on his head for years now.

/

To Alfred, it's always been like singing.

And that's hellishly morbid in itself, that the simmering violence and _desire _under his skin is like music to him. It coils sensually in his ears, sends shivers down his limbs, and makes him fidget. Makes his hands curl and uncurl, makes his feet thrum against the ground. His body _itches, _and he feels hot all over, like his blood is boiling and bubbling, like his skin can't contain it.

_You were born too big, _his mother once said to him, eyes narrowed, and he only saw her a few times after that, before she wasted away to nothing and her people became an afterthought at the back of his mind, but he remembers those words.

He was born too big, and he always feels like he needs another skin to crawl into.

He stretches out his limbs and touches the Pacific Ocean. Extends his hands and grabs at the west, feels the unclaimed territory become a part of him and sighs with relief. He _needs _it. He needs more room for himself. He's too _big. _

England used to come home smelling like blood. He never saw him fight but he knows that Matt saw England tear France up into little bitty pieces and Alfred wanted to throw up but he also looked at his hands and then looked at Matt and wondered.

But he was just a colony then. He wasn't allowed to take anything for his own.

He's not a colony anymore.

And he knows that this is how it's done. That this is what they _do. _They fight, and they take, and he _wants _it. Like he's wanted nothing before. He _wants _and when he holds Mexico down with his hands around her throat and watches blood bubble up underneath his nails, he feels- he feels-

He lets her go and staggers to his feet. Looks away from her wide, shocked eyes, and stumbles back to his own border. Texas is already his; he doesn't have to hurt her anymore. He doesn't _have _to. The territory is his now so he doesn't _have _to. Even if he _wants _to.

England once held him to his chest, sat him down in an empty field and told him that he was their new, better world. That America was a fresh start, something better than bitter, bloodstained Europe. America was a dream for them. A beautiful promise of a future not filled with gore and fear.

A dream.

He tucks his bloodied hands under his armpits, heart hammering in his chest.

/

"He's already defeated," Alfred says stubbornly, "He's already surrendered. Everyone's being ridiculous about this!"

Matthew gives him the same flat, almost pitying look he's been giving him all day, hair already overlong and grown out of that military haircut, face wan with rationing and six years of war. He looks pitying, but unsympathetic, and it's unnerving, those times when Alfred's reminded that his 'twin' brother is actually centuries older than he is.

"It's how it's done, Alfred," he says softly, again, for maybe the seventh time. Or the seventeenth. His voice is always so soft. He's always whispering. Alfred thinks about Teddy, one of his favourite presidents, and how he used to say that it was important to speak softly and carry a big stick. Matt speaks soft alright, but he's always been fonder of shooting from afar than of bludgeoning someone to death.

He's soft all around, his skin is soft and his hair is soft. He's got callouses on his hands though, and underneath his toes, and his grip's like steel, when he wants it to be. When he wants to be firm.

He was trying to be firm before. Now he just sounds tired.

"I'm not gonna-," Alfred huffs out a breath angrily, folding his arms across his chest, "I'm not gonna beat the shit out of Germany just 'cause I _won. _The war is _over! _What the hell would the point even be? That's the _problem, _Matt. It's why we keep having wars! Everyone's so angry, and we've got- we've got all this fire inside. This-this thing clawing us up from the inside. But no one ever tries to fight it! Everyone just- just rips and tears at each other because it feels good and they think they're supposed to. But _look_ at the world. We influence the humans as much as they influence us, and I bet- I bet if we just _stopped_. If we tried _not _to be monsters for like, half a second, we could make the whole world better. Make everything better for ourselves, and for our people."

He's furious and desperate, because he's tired of people- of Nations- looking at him like he's grown another head when he says that. Like it's _so _inconceivable that they should make an effort to stop ripping each other's throats out every chance they get. The world changes all the time. They've got ships that go under water and can fly in the air like birds. No one's more aware of the progression of time then they, who are buffeted and subject to it mercilessly, so why the hell is everyone so adverse to a change that they can make themselves? A change for something better?

Matthew tilts his head to the side slightly. "You think Nations should stop fighting each other?" he echoes curiously, his face carefully blank. And Alfred doesn't get how people ever get them mixed up. He knows he wears his heart on his sleeve, knows he gets his emotions all over the place and can't hold anything in for the life of him. But Matthew holds _everything _in. Matthew is so reserved and folded in on himself he practically takes up no space at all. He's so careful, so hidden within himself, so different from Alfred. He thinks no one notices him, but Alfred has _always _noticed him.

(when they were kids he'd spend hours just watching his brother. watching his mirror image walk around with the white polar bear at his feet and think _that should be mine it should all be mine one day I'll take it all. _he'd bite his lip and wish that he wasn't England's colony. so that he could take everything he wanted and whatever he wanted. they were two sides who should be together. like an image looking out from either side of a looking glass. it just made sense to him, that one day they'd be with each other, together. he'd watch his brother, and think how they were different, and how they were the same, and he'd _want._)

"Yeah," replies Alfred hoarsely, clearing his throat. "Yeah, I think so. We barely try, I think. We like fighting each other so much that we don't put enough effort into diplomacy. We just- I think we just make excuses for war. So that there's a reason to fuck and fight and make each other bleed. It-," he takes a deep breath, rubbing a hand across his forehead. "It needs to stop, Matt. If we want things to get better it needs to stop."

Matthew stares at him for a few long seconds, and he's so quiet, he's always so quiet, it's unnerving, sometimes.

"We're not humans, you know," he says finally, looking down at his lap and twisting his fingers together, "It might not be possible. It might not be as simple as you think."

"What, you think we can't do it?" snaps Alfred, nostrils flaring and hands clenched into fists. Matthew flinches back, and his gaze slides to the side, one hand reaching up to twist around a strand of hair.

"I think we'll go mad, if we try," he whispers.

/

It's 1763, and trailing behind England is a boy who looks just like him, clutching a white bear and hiding his face in its fur. He's fascinated for a minute or so, but then it occurs to him that _England's back! _And he runs to greet his big brother, rushing into his arms and breathing in the familiar scent of sea and gold and blood.

Barely a year later, when England is away again, he grips Canada's hand tight and asks _if I ran away, would you come with me? _

The violet eyed Nation-child who still speaks with a French accent stares at him dully, the slightest waver to his bottom lip.

"No, you're going to be just like him," he says quietly, clutching at his bear's fur. "You already want to tear me open, don't you? I can tell."

And America rears back, affronted and confused.

"I don't want to tear you open," he replies, offended, "I just want you to be mine! There's nothing wrong with that, is there? Wouldn't you rather be mine then England's?"

Canada just stares at him, long and hard. He still looks like a child, looks younger than America even, but he's got such sad, tired eyes. It's unnerving. It's hard to keep his gaze, but America does it, because he _has _to convince him. _Has _to get his brother to come with him.

(and he's not lying. he doesn't want to hurt his brother the way England hurts France and hurts Spain and hurts everyone. he just wants to grab him by the shoulders and maybe leave some marks so that everyone knows Canada belongs to _him. _not to hurt him the way England hurts. never like that.)

America beams at his brother, gives him his brightest, most winning smile, and the other Nation merely sighs once and doesn't reply.

Sometimes they play pretend.

Sometimes America's blood boils with anger- He's still too big, still feels confined and fidgety and like he's going to go mad if he can't _grow _and _take _and stretch out to those lands that should be _his. _And he can't because England is constricting him tighter and tighter. England is treating him like a _child. _England is-

He wants to _fight _England.

He knows he's young, he knows England's an empire and empires are strong and vicious and he's smelt like blood for as long as America's known him- but he still wants to fight him. He has a right to those unclaimed lands to the west (and a right to any other lands he's strong enough to take) and he's not just going to sit idle and let England stop him, he _refuses _he _won't._

But they both know that fighting England is impossible for him. They both know he's not strong enough, country nor Nation.

So they pretend. So America can feel his skin stretch, just a little, and the violent humming in his blood is satiated, for a time.

He bites at Canada's mouth and digs his nails into his arms and his brother just sighs, headbutts America gently when his teeth get to close to his throat. Because it's just pretend. They're not playing for real.

"You're still England's, America," he rebuffs gently, blood running down his chin and staining his teeth, "And I'm not yours."

_Yet _is the word that hovers unspoken between the two of them, and to America, it sounds like a promise.

/

When America comes back from the Pacific theatre, he can't stop tasting blood.

He can still feel it smeared all over his face, feel it caked under his nails and making his teeth and spit pink. He remembers his heart pounding in his chest, remembers the feeling of something hot and wet pulsing under his fingers, feeling it rolling down his jaw.

_For peace, _he remembers, _for a better future. _That's what his boss said. That's what he's been saying, to all the Nations. _The last war. We'll make it better, after this. I'm only fighting to make things _better.

But when it was him and Japan, face to face on some godforsaken, disease-ridden island. When it was the two of them fighting, grappling in the sand with teeth and nails and shattering breaking cracking bones and popping ribs, tearing at muscles and ripping shredding anything they could get a hold on-

His thoughts were not _for peace _or _for something better. _His thoughts were _how dare how dare you those islands were _mine _those bases were _mine _this is my territory and it will always be my territory and if you try and take it again I will tear open your chest and leave you open and empty and I will take you for everything you have and you will be mine like these islands are mine and like the world will be mine and __**how dare you.**_

He rips Japan's throat out with his teeth, and peace is the furthest thing from his mind.

/

It's 1783 and he's just won. He's just won and he's his own Nation now and all of a sudden the limitations of a colony are _gone. _He still feels too big but he can do something about it now. Can do something about it without England's permission. Can do something about the itch in his skin and the bubbling in his blood and if there's something he wants he can _take it. _

"You should come with me," he tells Canada, and he can barely stand still, that _singing _is so loud and running through him so viciously- "You should have come with me before, but you should definitely come with me now. I _won._"

Canada's eyes still look the same, still look tired and too too old. He's never really changed, in all these years. America has stretched and grown and is taller than him, taller than England even, but Canada is still small and still quiet and is all soft where he should be jagged and hard. But he probably doesn't hear the singing the way America does. Maybe he's so quiet because _it's _quiet, and he doesn't feel like bursting out of his skin the way America does.

They're very different, even though they're 'twins', and it drives America crazy, that they're still two separate entities. It's different then the desire he feels pulling him towards the west, pulling him southwards. He doesn't want to rip up Canada, doesn't want to hurt him or make him suffer, doesn't want to fight for the sake of fighting. He just _wants _him_. _

"I don't really want to be torn apart," replies Canada flatly, "I'm tired of it, actually. France took me apart and tore out all the old Norse and most of the Native, and then England took me apart and tore out all the French. I-," he huffs out a sigh, and sags visibly, turning his head to the side. "I'm _tired, _America."

America fidgets, because he doesn't like being compared to the Europeans, not anymore, and he just- he doesn't _get _what Canada's so worked up about because it's different with them! It's not some country across the sea staking a claim to something that's not theirs. It's two countries who are joined, who share a border, who practically share _land. _Why shouldn't they join together officially, as Nation states?

"But I," he starts, biting at his lip, "I don't want to- I don't want to _conquer _you. I just want you to-," He cuts himself off, and a frustrated whine escapes his lips as he squirms on his feet, hands twisting together.

Canada's gaze softens, and he sighs, lifting one hand to brush strands of hair away from his brother's forehead.

"I'm not yours, and you're not mine," he says firmly. His tongue darts across his lips and he sighs, pressing his fingertips against America's skin, hard, so that blood wells up in the crescent shaped indents his nails make.

"But we can pretend again," he says, softly, carefully, "For a little while."

/

And after the bombs drop. After he's scared everyone into submission. After the world settles into its postwar stupor and everyone's looking to him because he's the one with the money and the weapons and the _power- _

After he's promised them something _better. _Something _brighter. _After he doesn't take his spoils of victory and smash Germany's head to a pulp under his hands. After he holds Russia back from claiming him instead and snarls angrily when the Soviet Nation takes it out on Prussia instead. After he fights to get others to deny their nature and fights to prove that they can be _better. _That they can be _more. _

After all of that, and he can _still _feel it, like an implacable itch under his skin.

"It's okay," shushes Canada, with bleeding bitemarks all down his shoulders and collarbones and a nasty one just underneath his ear. "It's okay, I understand."

"We _can _be better," mutters America, and there's blood under his fingertips again, matting his hair, staining his teeth, "I know we can. I just-,"

"It's okay," repeats Canada again, and he kisses his brother, all teeth, lets him taste his own blood on the other's tongue. "It's just pretend. I'll always be here when you need to pretend."

"You're not mine," says America miserably, nails digging into the soft flesh of Canada's thighs, "You'll never be mine. I'm sorry- I told everyone that we should stop doing this, but I-,"

"You were right, I believe in your better world now, we can do it," interrupts Canada, and he's smiling softly, blood like lipstick, smeared across his face, "As long as we don't fight for real. As long as it stays pretend."

"We're still monsters though," groans America, letting his head drop into the nook between Canada's neck and shoulder, "I still- I still want to-,"

"And you'll always want to," replies Canada, his voice firm, not soft. "I know you always have. I know when you watched me. I know when you wanted to rip me up into pieces. I always knew, of course I did. You all- you and your people, wanted to run up to me and take and make my everything _your _everything. And I know you'll always want that, and I know you'll always want to taste my blood and bite at my skin and break things so I bruise."

He smiles again, tilting his head and taking America's head in his hands.

"So it's a secret," he whispers, furtively, "You can't have me, but you're right. It's better me than Japan or Germany or Italy. We can't make the mistakes they made after the first war and stir up feelings of revenge and anger. So we'll pretend like this, and you can fight me and not them, and we'll get you your better world, America."

"But do we deserve it?" murmurs America, the taste of salt and iron and copper thick in his mouth, "If monsters are who we are, who we'll always be, do we deserve it?"

/

**In Grade 10, I read a line in my American history textbook. It was something along the lines of "Riding on the waves of their success, Americans were filled with the understanding that they could achieve anything they desired, that their country was destined to grow and expand. And so a fervent, hungry whisper rippled through the nation,**_**Canada, Canada, Canada...**_**" It freaked me the fuck out and I've never forgotten it.**

**I was hesitant to write this, because I was so happy with its predecessor that I felt like any attempt to replicate its success would fail horribly and I'd end up hating myself forever. But I went for it anyways, after deliberating for weeks. I tried not to make it a duplicate of the other fic, so it's a bit different in terms of structure and covers a shorter timeline. I think it's alright. I still prefer its FrUK counterpart, especially in terms of dialogue, but I'm quite happy with it.**

**That said, I make no promises to continue this 'verse. If I do, it'll probably be with different characters (though I could do so much more with America and the insidious nature of American imperialism. I really really could)**

**oh, and in case anyone reading this cares, I missed the **_**Dragons in the Backyard **_**update because I was at Anime North. Regularly scheduled updates should resume this Sunday. -w-**


End file.
